Monday, October 25, 1993
The last two weeks had been… quiet.
Uncomfortably so.
No new murders splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet. No frantic Ministry announcements. No whispered sightings of masked figures in dark alleys or remote villages. The escaped Death Eaters might as well have vanished into thin air.
That alone set my nerves on edge.
Silence like this was never accidental. It was the kind of stillness that existed only because something was being prepared carefully, deliberately, somewhere just out of sight. I knew better than to believe the danger had passed. If anything, it meant Tom was being patient.
There hadn't been sightings of Sirius Black either.
But I knew that he'd most probably make a move on Halloween.
Which meant I had to be ready.
On the political side of things, the picture was just as telling.
Lucius Malfoy had complained to me a few days ago, his frustration barely concealed behind polished words and carefully neutral expressions. He still had not been summoned by the Dark Lord, like he was being purposely ignored.
For a man like Lucius, that silence was worse than punishment.
It meant he was not trusted.
From what he'd managed to gather through less reputable channels, however, the Carrow twins had been busy. Very busy. Several apothecaries reported unusually large purchases of potion ingredients, most of them innocuous on their own, but together forming a very familiar pattern.
Wolfsbane Potion.
I'd brought the information to Dumbledore immediately, and he hadn't looked surprised. That alone told me more than his words ever could.
According to him, Snape had received similar intelligence from his own sources, which meant the threat was credible.
We both assumed the same, a werewolf attack on the next full moon.
And yet, even with that, Severus still had not been recalled to the Death Eaters, which he had expected since they needed someone to brew such a difficult potion.
But Tom was being careful. Painfully so.
Only those he trusted completely were being allowed back into his circle.
Which meant whoever was moving now was either fanatically loyal… or disposable.
Probably both.
My own training had not slowed during this uneasy calm.
If anything, it had intensified.
I had taken Dumbledore's animagus meditation to heart, practicing it twice a day without fail. Morning, as soon as the day started, and night, just before sleep claimed me. I followed the rhythm, the cadence, the intent, letting the Swahili incantation sink inward instead of projecting outward.
The results were… unsettling.
The dreams continued. Not every night, but often enough to form a pattern. Unfortunately, they were never clear enough to guess what my animal was.
Only sensations.
Movement. Tension. Hunger.
And always, always, the taste of blood.
I would wake with my heart racing, breath shallow, tongue pressed unconsciously against my teeth as if expecting to find wounds that were never there. Dumbledore had assured me that this was normal, that the mind resisted clarity when instincts began to surface.
That did little to make it pleasant.
Which brought me to my current situation.
I stood in the familiar training room, sunlight filtering in through enchanted windows that mimicked a calm autumn morning. The stone beneath my boots felt solid, grounding, and the air hummed faintly with latent magic.
Dumbledore stood opposite me, hands folded calmly in front of him, blue eyes sharp despite his relaxed posture. He studied me in silence for a few seconds longer than necessary, as if weighing something unseen.
I shifted slightly and cleared my throat.
"Well," I said, breaking the quiet. "You usually don't stare like that unless you're about to either enlighten me or traumatize me."
His lips twitched.
"Perhaps a bit of both," he replied mildly.
I sighed. "Naturally."
I straightened and met his gaze fully, curiosity outweighing fatigue. "So," I said, unable to keep the anticipation out of my voice, "what's today's lesson going to be about?"
Whatever it was, I had the distinct feeling that the calm of the last two weeks was about to end.
…
Dumbledore folded his hands behind his back as he spoke, his tone calm, almost conversational, yet every word carried weight.
"Well," he said, "since you will not require further guidance on your Animagus training for the time being, and since your foundations are already solid enough, I believe it is time we expand your repertoire."
He took a few slow steps to the side, gesturing vaguely at the open space of the training room.
"We will begin training in one of my particular areas of expertise," he continued. "Elemental Transfiguration."
That alone was enough to make my attention sharpen completely.
"You are already proficient with fire," Dumbledore went on, eyes flicking to me knowingly. "Fiendfyre responds to you. You have also learned Gellert's… distinctive application of flame. Which is precisely why we will begin with the opposite element."
He turned to face me fully.
"Water."
I nodded, resisting the urge to interrupt.
"This is not Aguamenti," he said firmly, as if anticipating the thought. "Nor Aqua Eructo, useful though those charms can be. Conjuration charms create water and release it. What we will be working on is control."
He raised one finger.
"Direct manipulation of water, regardless of its source."
With a casual flick of his wand, the stone floor a few feet away darkened, moisture bleeding up through the surface until a shallow pool formed where there had been nothing moments before. The transition was seamless, the stone simply… becoming wet.
"You may use a preexisting source," he explained, "such as a river, rain, or even the moisture in the air. You may summon water with conventional charms and then take control of it. Or, if necessary, you may transfigure another substance entirely."
He pointed at the floor lightly with his wand. The pool rippled once, then froze solid in an instant, the ice clear and glassy.
"Earth into water. Air into vapor. Stone into ice."
He waved his wand again and the ice sublimated into a thick cloud of steam that billowed upward, warm enough that I felt it brush against my face.
"Each option has advantages and drawbacks," he said. "Water can be shaped, compressed, and accelerated. You may increase its density to the point where it behaves more like a blunt weapon than a liquid. You may prevent it from evaporating under extreme heat. You may freeze it, or…"
The steam suddenly surged forward, rolling across the room in a controlled wave before dispersing harmlessly.
"…you may turn it into vapor," Dumbledore finished evenly. "Which, while cruel, is undeniably effective in combat."
The steam vanished completely, leaving the room exactly as it had been before.
I let out a slow breath, realizing I had been holding it.
Lockhart the author might have admired the elegance of it all. But Lockhart the wizard was already cataloging applications, counters, and combinations.
I nodded, eyes never leaving Dumbledore.
"So this isn't about power," I said slowly. "It's about finesse."
Dumbledore smiled, clearly pleased.
"Precisely. Fire responds eagerly to intent. Water does not. It resists domination. It prefers guidance."
He studied me for a moment longer, gaze thoughtful.
"And," he added, "given your recent dreams, I suspect this element will teach you something about yourself as well."
That got my attention.
I straightened slightly. "Always a hidden lesson with you."
"Always," he agreed.
He lifted his wand once more and gestured toward the far side of the room, where a long stone basin rose smoothly from the floor, filling itself with clear, perfectly still water.
"Come," Dumbledore said. "Let us see how well you listen."
I stepped forward, staff in hand, every instinct alert.
Something told me this lesson was going to be far more difficult than setting things on fire.
…